Or Give Me Death
by aphrodite931
Summary: Previously named "An End" ..."What do you think happens to a nation when someone takes them over for themselves? ...They become a colony until some point in which they become so integrated with the host country that their existence is no longer needed, that so little differentiates them from the host... only one can go on while the other fades away..." 4-SHOT (I promise no longer!)
1. Give Me Liberty

"This is the end America. You lose," the voice spat between labored breaths. The bayonet shook at each rasp of breath but remained firmly pointed at the youth's face. The two gazed back at each other, alone in the war torn field with only the rain to keep them company.

The rebel stared up the tip of the weapon as it forced him down into the muddy earth. He was overtaken by a sense of filthiness and grime as the wet earth permeated through the coarse wool material of his uniform. Only hours ago he had cursed the rain for daring to soak the stiff and scratchy fabric but now he focused his hatred toward the thick and soupy mud. The youth felt ugly, small, and impure as the emerald orbs of the red coat glared down at him. He had failed; failed his people and himself. His couldn't shake the despair and traces of fear that racked his body. The rebel had occasionally considered what the consequence of his failure would bring but now that it was real, now that he was facing the end of the war, the end of the struggle, he found himself afraid. Not knowing what else to do, America lowered his head, focusing his attention on the brass buttons of his uniform.

It was simple design, just a roped lace border with the words "USA" in the middle. He remembered watching Washington work on their design into the midnight hours, sketching out details in candle light. That had only been half the battle though. Next, the general had to tirelessly petition Congress in order to secure the funding needed. America had found it all rather silly truthfully. Clothes didn't make the man he argued but Washington just smiled and told him that the uniforms represented something more. America didn't understand what he meant at first but when the uniforms came in and Washington presented the regal jackets to the men, their spirits soared. Only then did America realize that Washington wasn't making an attempt at vanity but rather national pride. These men were farmers, village upstarts but the blue coats made them feel like an army.

"Stupid," America muttered, grabbing the button and pulling it from the jacket. A stray tear fell down his cheek but was lost to the rain. "Just God damn it all!" he screamed, throwing the silver plated brass piece into the distance and startling the Brit above him

England scowled, regaining his composure quickly enough. He had permitted his charge to sulk and mope in his defeat but his patience was thinning, particularly after America's outburst.

"That's enough America," England scolded. He just wanted to be out of this rain, off of this battlefield, and finalize the end of this war. Despite the vicious battles waged against each other, England still loved his colony. The Brit had wanted to give him the time he needed to accept his defeat but as rain poured down he couldn't find the will to wait much longer. America turned his head to glare at him, blue eyes meeting green in a fierce display ending in America yielding his gaze.

"No. It's not enough. It never has been," America retorted, his voice low and somber. His shoulders slumped and sigh escaped his lips. And in that moment, America chose to resign himself to his fate. He had fought it for so long now that he found his acceptance granted him a sense of freedom and of peace. His anger dissipated, his fears simmered, and his soul, presuming countries had souls, felt light.

"What are you going on about now you bloody fool?"

"...I'm sorry, England," America said, giving his mentor a muted smile taking the English man aback. Heaving a soft sigh, America fell back on the ground completely, his golden tendrils becoming caked with brown and eyelids fluttering closed.

England didn't respond. He didn't know how to. Out of all the scenarios he played in his head, not one ended in America apologizing. Typically, nations would swear revenge or utter curses but then again, nothing America did made much sense to England. First, the boy had chosen him over the Frog. A wise decision of course but few other countries agreed. Most other nations found the island nation's attitude repulsive and shunned him. And then, there had been the news of his darling colonies rebellion. England had been speechless upon hearing the news. He hadn't even been aware that America wanted to leave him, abandon him, just like everyone else. America was the one ray of light in his life and somehow, he had finally realized how broken and useless England truly was.

"England," America's soft voice broke the terse silence freeing England from his spiraling thoughts to look at the rebel below him, "do you think there is a heaven or someplace for us nations too?"

Now, England was more than perplexed. The query was posed so innocently and at such a random interval, England was prodded by the complete absurdity of the scenario to answer. "I-I don't know," he stammered truthfully, lowering the bayonet to his side so that it hung limply in his grip. America didn't seem to have any trace of resistance left in him and as England saw his charge as he was now, lying in the soggy earth, an utterly blissful look on his face he couldn't help but lower his guard. The boy before him was not the young man he fought on the battlefield till tooth and nail. No, this boy was his little America again, calm, content, and smiling.

England had never felt so relieved. It was over, truly over. America was back to his old self. After facing the tenacious and determined youth on the battlefield, England had feared that even if he had won, America would be resilient and bitter. A wave of peace overcoming him, England knelt down below his charge.

"I know other nations had disappeared before leaving others in their place but no one knows where they go to," England continued, breaking the pause that had settled over the pair.

"Really, so others have gone away too. …Interesting," America answered, opening his eyes to direct his sky blue gaze at England. "Do you think they're happy?"

"I-I," England stuttered, unsure of how to answer. Truly, these questions were ones he rarely thought of and found it odd that America was so interested in it now. Regardless of his reservations, England answered, "Well, I suppose I mean I hope so-"

"Iggy?"

"Yes America?" the older nation questioned, ignoring the interruption. He didn't know why but he felt the need to hang onto America's every word. Perhaps it was the boys unusual behavior but whatever the reason it didn't matter.

"Can you promise not to hurt Washington, Adams, Jefferson, or any of my men?"

"America," England answered, a rough tone reclaiming his voice, "those men are traitors and brainwashed you to turn you against me. They deserve-"

"Freedom," America chuckled, closing his eyes and letting his head slump deeper into the moist ground.

England glared at his colony, clearly not amused at his answer…or his interruption…again. America wasn't quite sure which.

"Yes, England. You did teach me manners," the defeated blonde teased, guessing his mentor's thoughts forcing the man to sputter.

"I-I-You-I wasn't- Well I did a rotten job of it. When we get back home I'm going to have to reeducate you it seems."

"Haha, that's where you're wrong England. You're going to come home with me."

"America," England growled, "You've lost the war."

"Yes, …I have, which is exactly why I'm going home," America smiled.

"God, just what did those bloody bastards do to your brain? You're making no sense whatsoever."

"You know, they didn't brainwash me," America said, his slowing and shallow breaths overlooked by England.

"What?! What are you saying!? You honestly turned-"

"Yes, I rebelled against you on my own volition."

England let the words soak in and for the first time, he could feel the bitter sting and chill of the rain that fell around them. The Empire could not adequately describe his feelings at that moment to anything he had ever experienced. However, if he was forced to try, he supposed it was similar to the time when a bomb had landed at his feet. The soft earth of that particular battlefield saved him from major damage but the explosion had temporarily left him deaf and isolated from the battle waging around him. The world seemed to slow and yet the actions of those around him in contrast sped up, leaving him behind in a confused limbo. He could hear muffled screams and explosions as if cotton was held over his ears but there was none. He felt as if he had been sent to an alternate time in space, forever shut off from the world around him; a place in which only he could see and only he could hear those near him but was invisible to everyone and everything else. Alone, he was finally alone and he could feel the tears threaten to spill.

England could vaguely hear the call of America's voice. He was saying something England was sure but he couldn't make out the words. They were garbled to his ears.

He had fought this war in the misguided belief that his America did not hate, did not want to be rid of him. He had blamed the colonists. Surely they had altered his little colony and forced the impressionable youth to turn against him. The thought saved him every night he went to sleep, imaging that one day he would hold America like he used to; that when he came to visit his mere presence was enough to send the child into a deliriously happy tizzy. The notion kept him sane and prevented him from breaking like his heart was.

"You betrayed me of your own free will… but why?" England all but nearly sobbed, dropping to his knees and cradling his face in his hands. His illusion had been crushed and he could feel tiny fragments of his being cracking. Was he truly this hated? Must everyone grow tired of him? Cast him aside? Even his darling America wanted to be free of him?

"Sshhh, Iggy. It's ok," America cooed, placing a gentle and feathery touch on the Empire's knee. "Please don't cry," he whispered, his fingers ghosting over the other's warmer leg.

It was then that England knew something was wrong, terribly, utterly wrong. America's hand was cold and weak, even for a defeated nation such weakness was unusual. England tore himself away from his hands to look down at the youth, shock evident in his eyes.

"Oh, don't get knickers in a twist," America grinned, his lips parting forcefully.

Now, England noticed the slight rasp in voice, the slow and labored way in which his chest moved up and down, and the dull light reflected in his charge's eyes. And just like that, all of the heartache, strife, and emotional turmoil ripping through England halted. All he felt now was worry and panic for his darling colony.

"A-America? Are you hurt anywhere?" he fretted, grasping onto America's hand tightly.

"D-Don't worry about me," America answered, his smile faltering once through what England could only imagine was pain.

"America, let me get you to my fort and attend to your wounds. You should have told-"

"It's nothing you can fix Iggy. It's done and over. This is the end for me remember?" America said lightheartedly, turning the elder's former words against him.

"You know I didn't mean it like that. I never wanted to hurt you."

"I know, and I know you love me dearly too so don't ever worry about anything like that. And just so you know I love you too. You were the best big brother anyone could ask for…well, you could have visited a bit more," America laughed weakly. England couldn't help but smile slightly. It gave him hope that America could still be jovial or at least pretend to be jovial. Surely, his condition couldn't be that dire if he kept up such a good-humored attitude.

"Come now, you're hurt and you can't deny it. Let's go so I can get you fixed up," England told the other, readying himself to carry the younger nation back to his fort.

"Don't!" America yelled, the force of his voice surprising England enough to make him freeze to where he was kneeled into the dirt. "S-sorry," America apologized quietly after taking a minute to collect his breath.

"Amer-"

"I just want to stay here a while longer."

"Alfred," England whispered, concerning leaking through his tone.

"Please Arthur?" America pleaded quietly.

England nodded mutely and sat by him stiffly, grabbing hold of his hand and stroking it lightly. He hoped that the panic that was slowly finding a home within him didn't reflect on his face as tried to ignore the frozen feeling the younger's hand gave off. He didn't and couldn't comprehend the full magnitude of the situation.

'America is merely injured,' England told himself, his heart wrenching at each shaky breath the younger drew. 'He's far too young for this to be anything else,' he reasoned. All of the other nations had lived to be at least a couple hundred years old before they disappeared and even then, it was incredibly rare to disappear so young. Most personifications thrived for hundreds upon hundreds of years. He himself was on the verge of a thousand years and he was one of the younger European nations.

"Iggy?" America panted, his eyes barely parting to stare at his brother.

England could feel his heart throb and clench at the frail state America was in. This was not supposed to happen. He had just wanted his colony back.

"Yes?" he answered, fighting off the shaky tone his heart threatened to taint it with.

"Do you remember that field of wildflowers I took you once when I was little and everywhere you looked there were beautiful bright colors and sun seemed to smile down on us as if it were happy that we were happy?"

England nodded; he remembered the day, the field, and his precious colony. It was the perhaps the best day of his life. The field had been littered in flowers as if they were a blanket covering the cool, hard earth beneath. Hundreds of colors danced across the field, swaying in the mild breeze. Clear blue skies reign supreme overhead, leaving a pristine canvas to be filled with the aromatic smells and happy squeals of laughter. It was all so picturesque down to the last detail. America drug him threw field, chasing after butterflies, ladybugs, small creatures like rabbits, playing games like tag, and making crowns upon crowns of flowers. England had come back looking more akin to a poppy monster than a person. But the smile on America's face was well worth it, besides, the blossoms smelled lovely. England couldn't recall a time he had ever been so happy. In fact, he woke up the next day with sore cheeks caused from constant bouts of laughter. His crew had found it hilarious that their captain had missed the ship's launch and then couldn't even bark orders when they set sail the next day.

"We just laughed and played all day. I remember how you originally were supposed to leave that day but I couldn't let you leave just yet. I had missed you so much and wasn't ready to say goodbye. So, I dragged you out to the field in hopes you'd forget about leaving," America smiled. "And guess what? It worked."

"Yes, it did. It's one of the best days of my life," England answered truthfully, a sincere smile gracing his lips.

"Ahhh, that's what I wanted to see," America sighed. England frowned, confused by his colony's words.

"What do you-"

"Ah, don't ruin it. Just then, you were smiling. Smiling like you did on that day, like how you used to. Don't you know I love it when you smile like that? You look so happy." America whispered, his eyes falling closed again.

England shook his head 'no', tears beginning to bristle at the corner of his eyes. His heart was breaking and he didn't know why. Truthfully, he did but England was a master of deception, the main fool of who believed his lies being himself. Yes, no one could lie to England like he could.

"America," England pleaded, "Please, let me take you back so I can have you healed. I don't like how you're talking-"

"England, you know how we are the representatives of countries?"

"Yes," England answered, his voice choking.

"What do you think happens to a nation when someone takes them over for themselves?"

"I-I don't know. …America, now is not the time. We need to get you patched up-"

"They become a colony until some point in which they become so integrated with the host country that their existence is no longer needed, that so little differentiates them from the host that unless they are to break from each other, only one can go on while the other fades away, quite literally I'm afraid," America wheezed and turned his head as a transparent sheen over took him for a moment. England froze, watching in pure mortification as the younger seemed to flicker in and out of existence before his very eyes. England's eyes flitted down to his lap where he had been only moments before stroking the others hand. However, now nothing was there aside from the empty sleeve of a rebel jacket.

"A-America!" England gasped out, searching for something of the younger nation to hold on to. Much to England's relief, the youth's chest was still solid and so he clutched onto it for dear life.

"I'm so s-sorry I hurt you E-England. I-I just- wanted a chance to live," America smiled, but he could not hide the pain that reflected in his eyes.

"No! I'm sorry. I-I didn't realize! I'll grant you your independence just don't leave me! I thought you hated me and wanted to be rid of me, that's why I fought you." England sobbed, clawing at the navy uniform.

"It's-it's ok England. I've come to accept it. 'Sides, I don't think it works like that. J-Just promise me you won't hurt Wash-Wash-Washington a-and the others. Th-they only wanted to l-let me live. And E-England, how cou-could you think I hated you? I've never ha-hated you a-and never will."

"America," England cried, looking pushing himself off of America's chest to stare into the pained blue orbs of his colony. "I promise," he said finally, his voice growing more frantic as America only seemed to disappear faster "I'll promise anything you say so please don't go! I grant you independence. From here on out America is separate from Great Britain. See? So now you don't have to leave me!"

"England-d, I'm s-sor-ry."

"Stop apologizing you git. You'll be fine. You have to be," Arthur wailed, hardly able to see the nation. He didn't know whether it was due to the constant stream of tears his body produced or whether or not America's situation was deteriorating but he hoped it was not latter.

"H-Hey. I-It's ok. Do-n't cry. I don't w-want to se-see you cry."

"I can't help it," England wailed. "You just can't go."

"E-England. I'm fa-ading. I c-can feel it. S-so pl-please smile one- one last t-time for me?" America wheezed.

"No! I can't! If you go, I'll never be able to smile again!" England cried, clutching even tighter to the coarse fabric of the rebel uniform.

"Do-don't say tha-at, don't ma-ke me g-go into the un-unknown upset. I've on-only ever w-wanted you to- to be happy."

"F-Fine, I'll smile for you so stay with me! What good will my smile bring you if you're dead?"

"I'm s-sorry I-Iggy. I-I d-don't have much of a-a choice."

"No! But why you? Anyone but you and I-"

"D-Don't say that. I-In a w-way, I'm hap-happy it's me b-because if y-you think about it, if-if it's me then it can't be someone else a-and in that sense it m-makes me a hero," he smiled, this time some of content happiness that graced his lips made it to his dimming eyes. "S-So please smile f-for me. I wouldn't b-be able to pass on knowing y-you were cr-crying for me like this."

"F-Fine, I'll smile for you but not now. Just-Just stay with me! We're family, you can't leave me alone."

America coughed slightly, his weak smile fading along with his body. "You know, th-there are worse ways t-to die. I-I've seen 'em. Bodies mutilated and f-forced to go on without a-a friend or l-loved one to send them off. I-I'm glad it's h-here on this soil I-I knew as m-my own and with you. Th-Thank you Iggy. D-Don't w-worry about me. I-I'm going ho-me now." America said, his voice trailing off into a whisper towards the end as his body disappeared into the air leaving his mentor to clutch onto the wool fabric he was once wearing.

"AMERICA!" he screamed into the sky, the rain mixing with his tears.

* * *

**So I've had this idea for a while now and finally got around to writing it. I hope everyone likes it. It actually made me tear as I wrote it and I hope it inspired similar emotions in you. This will be a two-shot and will be followed up with a happier piece. Please comment and tell me what you think!**

**Woohoo! Now's it revised. I'll have the second chapter up eventually I just don't like how it is yet.  
**


	2. Return

A/N: So, surprise, surprise, but this will NOT be the last installment. This is less than half of the original story length and I decided to split it because it was getting very long, and I like this part but not the rest. Therefore, I figured that I should post what I gots and finish the rest later. Thanks for your support and enjoy the second to last chapter! :)

Return

England remained rooted to the spot America had once laid, the world turning dull. And once more, he found himself trapped in that parallel world. The one in which time separated for him, tearing him from the fabric of reality and leaving him alone in a void where he could only watch and listen, helpless. Only this time, the blast that propelled him into this dimension did not leave him unscathed. No, he had been torn to pieces. The damage was collateral. He could never hope to be the same or recover. This wound wouldn't heal and this scar would never fade. He'd be forever impaired, forever shattered, forever heartbroken.

England wasn't sure how long he sat like that but he felt it hadn't been long enough when a hand released him from his stupor.

"Sir, I've been looking for you everywhere. The last I saw of you, you were pursuing a rebel brigade and when you didn't come back I feared the worst."

England didn't answer.

When he was first thrown into the void he had been relieved to be freed from its clutches but now the numbing sensation had been like a nurturing mother to him. It had dulled his pain and shooed away the outside world. Sadly, the spell had been broken and reality clambered about him, pulling at the fabric of his being, nipping at his soul, singing his skin. As England was catapulted back to his senses, he realized the rain had stopped at some point. He couldn't fathom as to when. Aside from that detail, nothing about the battlefield had changed except for his general's presence.

"Sir?"

"Not now Cornwallis," England whispered, his throat sore and scratchy from his grieving.

His only solace was the coarse jacket he clutched firmly in his hands. The Brit's knuckles had turned white and throbbed but England wasn't sure he could release the fabric if he tried. Instead, he only clutched the rebel uniform closer, bringing it up to his face. The harsh fabric caught against his cheeks but absorbed his tears, just like Alfred would have done if he had been able to.

"But sir, we've captured the rest of the rebel band and his compatriots, including a Spanish fellow, a French man, and Prussian rogue who have all requested to an audience with you. I believe them to be like yourse-"

"Yes, I bloody well know who they are but they can wait. You can wait. …The entire blasted world can wait. I just want a few more minutes. Give me that one small pleasure won't you?" he spat, his voice harsh and graveled.

"But sir-" Cornwallis began to protest but was cut off before he could utter another syllable.

This time England's voice came out soft, recognizably in mourning, "Let me indulge my, as you would refer to it, _humanity_ for a few more moments. _Please_."

"Y-Yes sir," Cornwallis stammered, turning back to gather his men and call off the search for their country.

"America," England choked into the rebel outfit, reminiscing of the sweet blue-eyed boy he had once known and loved. "My darling America. I'm so sorry."

By the time England found the strength to leave his knees were firmly sewn to the earth. The mud marred his red uniform, turning it an unsightly brown. He forcibly tugged at his muscles, compelling himself to stand. He staggered, his bones and muscles stiff. A faint glimmer in the east, indicating the ascent of the sun into the wide, open sky lit the way back to his base. Slowly, as if a man condemned, England trudged back to his fort. He opted to leave his rifle in the dirt in favor of cradling his colony's navy blue jacket just as had so often cradled America when he had been a newborn. England tiredly recognized he had begun to hum the tune he frequently lulled America to sleep with.

"Sir Kirkland!" Cornwallis greeted, raising his hand to give the nation an honorary salute when he saw the blonde gentleman enter the encampment. England noted how the general's eyes lingered on the rebel jacket in his arms but he paid it no mind. He couldn't care to bother with much anything right now thus he didn't return Cornwallis's greeting. He merely had his eyes gloss over the man in muted recognition of his presence and not much else.

If Cornwallis was offended by England's lack of response or confused over his behavior, he didn't show it; rather, he accompanied the shorter gentleman to his quarters while he prattled off details of their victory: spoils, spies, punishments, and so on. England would occasionally nod to a particular query or comment but not much else. The nation paused to let Cornwallis finish his report when they reached his chambers, an olden brick building they had sequestered solely for the use of higher ranking officials, England being the primary beneficiary of that ruling.

"And one more thing sir," he finished, a bit too animatedly for England's liking at the moment. But, England supposed they had just won a long and bloody war and _his_ _own_ attitude was far more out of place than the young general's.

The Empire glanced up at the man giving a curt nod letting him know to continue.

"I left our Spanish, French, and Prussian prisoners in your quarters. I thought that you would know what to do with them best."

England started a bit at the younger's admission. He hadn't expected, or even wished, to see any other personification for some time let alone those three mongrels. Apparently, England's expression gave him away judging by Cornwallis's next prose.

"If you do not feel ready to speak to them just yet, I shall have my men remove them and take them to the prisoner's barracks until you feel prepared enough to see them. After all, I can only presume you must feel exhausted. We all know you've been trying your best to put an end to this blasted rebellion," he said, giving England a comforting smile.

England stiffened, Cornwallis's words echoing in his mind. He remembered the countless nights he had stayed up late, reviewing battle plans in order to ensure a British victory and in doing so, return America to his side. What great irony it was that through his tireless calculating and winning battle strategies that he had lost America forever.

England glared at the general; the wound to his heart still fresh and vulnerable and whilst Cornwallis had not intentionally meant to verbally abuse the nation, the fact remained that he had. England was so enraged that he could spit. Instead, he opted to turn on his heel and throw open the door leading to his quarters. The hinges angrily screeched at the rough treatment, nearly coming out of the frame.

"Out! I want all of you out!" England screamed into the house. No sooner than the last syllable had left his lips could the sounds of frantic shuffling upstairs and throughout the entirety of house be heard. Five men bustled into the entry way, while two soldiers descended the stairs to join the others.

"Are you blokes deaf? I said get out!"

Five of the seven men ran from the house, frightened for their lives but the two men who had come down the stairs remained, albeit their eyes betrayed their desire to run as well. They fidgeted nervously under England's stare; the nation's rage growing exponentially at the insubordinate actions of the men in front of him.

"S-Sir," one of them squeaked, finding his voice. "Th-The prisoners up-up stairs. Are you-you sure you w-wished to be left a-alone with th-them?"

By this point England was shaking with anger. He couldn't even find adequate words to describe his immense hatred for these two soldiers or the feelings coursing through him. And when his words failed him, England turned to the small table next to him, picking up the large vase only to hurl it at his men. Both men dodged the attack and paled at the deafening crash that followed after. They did not need to be told again to leave and ran toward the open doorway.

Cornwallis looked just as shaken as the men, having witnessed the entire scene. The war was over. They had won so why was England so upset?

"S-Sir?" the general queried but froze when England snapped his head back to look at him. The last thing he saw before the door was slammed shut were his commander's venomous green eyes directed towards him. He couldn't repress the shiver that racked his body. The young general merely stood staring at the door dumbfounded before his legs finally regained the ability to move and carried him away from the house.

England stomped up the stairs, the hard falls of his boots somewhat comforting. Although he knew the house could not feel pain, it felt good to let his anger out on something, somehow, someway. As he spirited himself down the hallway, he caught a glimpse through an open door of his three prisoners. Had it been any other time, he might have reveled at the fear reflected in their faces. Surely, they had heard his angry cries, the shattering glass, and heavy footfalls and were rightly afraid of the ferocity of the Brit. They didn't dare utter a word.

"I'll be with you shortly," England said curtly, pausing to address them before reaching his quarters. England pushed the door ajar and stomped over to his bed.

He hardly had time to think before he found himself collapsed on the mattress, pressing Alfred's uniform tightly to his chest. His misery rushed back to him, pushing aside the anger. The scene was reminiscent to when Cornwallis had found him on the battlefield, only now blankets cushioned his body in place of the wet mud. He hiccupped as his sobs began to die down. Pools of light poured into the room as the sun began its descent from the day sky. Once again, England had spent a large portion of his day sobbing to the memory of his lost America and he was exhausted. Within only a course of half a day he had experienced every emotion imaginable and he was beginning to feel the strain. He desperately wanted to sink into the blankets and go to sleep. Perhaps when he awoke, he would find that all of this had been a dream but England knew that this was real. No dream could break his heart like this. Besides, he had yet to address his fellow nations and if he permitted himself to slip into the realms of the unconscious they would surely escape and cause damage.

With a resigned and remorseful sigh, England forced himself from his bed. He rubbed at his red and puffy eyes, knowing that he'd have to do his best to hide his face from the trio lest they know he had been crying. Bawling would have been a more appropriate term however.

Stealing himself, England rose from the bed, uniform still in hand. He couldn't bear to let it go. It would be like having Alfred disappear all over again. However, he knew he couldn't face his fellow nations clutching onto a rebel jacket, America's rebel jacket. Distressed, England tore at the uniform before his mind had a chance to catch up to his actions. He stopped when a small but audible 'pop' sounded, followed by the clatter of metal hitting wood. England looked to his feet, finding a metal 'USA' button. It was just like the one America had clutched earlier and England found himself doing the same thing.

England silently bent down, his gaze intently focused on the small silver orb. His thumb caressed the inscription, feeling the minute ridges of each letter. Slowly, England stood back up, fisting the fastener.

"America, I'm so sorry. Please, g-give me strength," he whispered, kissing the fist that held the button. Trepidly, England approached his door, finding some resolve when his fingers curled around the brass handle. It was as if his senses were heightened and dulled at the same time. England couldn't feel his injuries or weary limbs but everything he touched and the light breaking through the window seemed magnified. It was a strange experience, almost otherworldly.

England turned the handle, opening the door faster than he had intended. Steadying himself and clasping the button tighter, the nation strode down the hallway to face his awaiting prisoners.

"Angleterre!" a despicably, annoying voice greeted him. "I was beginning to think you'd never come," France joked lightly. Apparently, the trio had composed themselves while England had been in his room, the fear being completely washed from their eyes.

"I'm not in the mood Frog," England frowned, towering over the tied up nations before him.

"Keskeskeskeskes, not having a sense of humor is not awesome," Prussia laughed.

"Where is senor America? I thought he be with you now that he lost."

"I bet you merely left him exhausted in your bed after having a rousing session honhonhon? You did take quite a long time before coming to see u-" France's sentence died at the end of his throat when England brought a sharp blade to French nation's jugular.

"Not. Another. Word." England spat, summoning all of his anger, all of his hatred, all of his pain into those simple words, effectively shutting up all three men. It was ironic or at least humorous how quickly pain and despair could morph into pure, unadulterated fury and hatred.

Ah. There it was. The fear returned to each face, mild terror dancing behind their wide eyes. England smirked, easily falling into his role; the role of smug victor, terrifying adversary, most powerful nation in the world, uncaring bastard who couldn't be bothered by the death of his most loved colony.

"Well, now that I have your attention, I believe we should begin discussing the terms of your surrender."

"Mi amigo, does not senor America need to be here for this?" Spain asked timidly after a moment of unbroken silence.

"Aa-" England broke, before taking in a deep sigh and turning away from the three while maintaining to keep a steady voice, "America, is no more." England paused, the silence threatening to consume the room again. England, however, would not stand for such and continued his thought.

"Thus, he will not be joining us for these negotiations or any other negotiations, ever."

"Que!?"

"Was?!"

Spain and Prussia exclaimed, shocked at the news. America was so young and vibrant and now they were being told he was gone. It was hard to comprehend. Nations fought and waged war all the time and rarely disappeared after a loss, particularly young nations like America. France however, did not voice his surprise or any indignation at all.

"What happened?" France asked, his voice low and oddly serious.

"Oh something tragic I'm afraid," England answered calmly as if he was giving a report of the weather, "he up and disappeared when he lost is all. Something about colonies eventually becoming so close to their host they must separate or disappear. I would not let him separate so he disappeared. Simple." The words stung and England wondered as to how he could keep his voice from cracking. He stifled the ache in his chest, crossing his arms behind his back and fixing his gaze upon the intricate wallpaper design in front of him.

"Bastardo!" Spain bit first, followed by similar cries led by Prussia. But once again France didn't say a thing.

"However," England's voice broke over the indignant cries of the nations, silencing the two countries, "this war has dragged on long enough. And for this reason and this reason only, I only demand that the three of you pay me enough reparations to cover the cost of rebuilding the settlements here and the cost I have accrued in order to finish this blasted war."

The demand immediately shut the two countries up. The terms were oddly reasonable and blindsided the pair completely.

"I'll have officials report to you tomorrow with an official document for you to sign. I trust you won't run away or whatnot so I'll let you go in the meantime. You can take whatever quarters you like so long as they are not my own or my soldiers unless you have been given their consent. Do I make myself clear?"

The trio nodded, not that England could see.

"I asked if I was clear?" he repeated, his voice turning to venom.

"Si amigo, very clear," Spain answered, followed by a 'Ja' and 'Qui'.

"Good," England answered, and without looking, threw the knife to France's feet, earning him a feminine cry from France fearing for his 'private regions'. "You may go after you untie yourselves." England expertly maneuvered himself so that his face would not be seen by the trio as he proceeded to leave the room. The walk back to his bedroom seemed grueling and impossibly long. His footsteps fell at uneven intervals, finally ceasing when he reached his bed. Without a thought or care to his clothes, stiff and filthy, he clambered into bed. Besides, his previous sobbing session had left the bed covered in dirt that fell off of his jacket. And although he didn't know it, he fell into the last peaceful slumber he'd have in a while. He dreamed of nothing, just an empty black void. There, no pain existed, no light existed, it was nothing, and England found peace.

* * *

Please comment and check out my newest Hetalia fanfic inspired by Les Mis!


	3. The World Anew

IMPORTANT! Please read the A/N at the bottom. I have a question for you guys! :) Also, I have no clue how the line, "Give me Liberty or give me Death" skipped over my head when I was making a title for this story but it's so perfect I'm doing something I wouldn't normally do and am changing the title. I'm sorry for any confusion that this will cause.

Or Give Me Death

Epilogue Part 1

Countless years had passed since that fateful day in October when America disappeared and few could believe how the mere disappearance of one tiny colony could affect the world so greatly. The ramifications of the young nation's death were not immediate or quick but history would remember and refer back to that moment when the world started to transform.

Afterwards, England released all of his colonies and territories, America being the obvious exception. He assisted them in forming various monarchies although they typically invested more power in the people than the crown until eventually the crown was all but forgotten. They based their principles off of the writings and ideas of philosophers like John Locke, Adam Smith, and Thomas Hobbes. In the future, the principles of Karl Marx and others were briefly explored as well until soon these colonies boasted free and fair societies that other nations adapted and took for their own. The age of conquest had come to an end.

Other nations, partially in fear of what happened to America and partially in fear of what England would do to countries if they did not comply, released their colonies as well. Peace and harmony became goals rather than acquisition and subjugation. Countries found themselves sharing with each other, relying on each other, and benefiting from each other instead of taking from each other.

England spearheaded the charge, enforcing punishments on those who tried to break from this unspoken agreement of peace until the desire or thought of war fled the mind of any nation, and for the first time in history, death seemed a far off and distant notion. Of course, disease, disasters, and famine still occurred but through cooperation, all nations found such difficulties easier to cope with.

France, although happy and content with the change in the world, would occasionally find himself missing of the England he once knew. A young, brash, brazen, foul-mouthed (at least that hadn't changed about him), pirate, whose true smile, while rare to see, could at least be spotted upon occasion. But now, although the island nation's lips would quirk up and form a grin at times and a hearty laughter fell from his lips after being told a funny joke, there was this light that never reached his eyes. When America had disappeared, he had unwittingly taken a piece of the older nation with him. On the nights they would go drinking together, England would occasionally burst into uncontrollable sobs whispering the name 'America'.

France ignored these outbursts and would bring him home. Typically, England would have sobered up enough to shoo the 'bloody Frog' away at the door but on one occasion France found himself lugging the smaller nation up to his bedroom. After removing his shoes and tucking England in, he noticed a shadowbox hung upon the wall. In it lay a dated and dirty navy rebel jacket that struck him as oddly familiar. It wasn't until he was back in his own bed that he remembered the garment to be an American Revolutionary jacket and if England had kept it, it was probably America's.

That night, France dreamt of the little boy Finland had once showed him and for whom he fought over for with England. It wasn't unusual for him to dream of the young colony truthfully. Although when he typically dreamt of the lad, he looked no different from the last time France had saw him: tall, muscular, and bright blue eyes just itching to travel the world. In these dreams America would ask him of England, occasionally of Canada, Spain, Prussia, himself or the others, but mostly England. France would always answer and tell him what he wished to know, which was mainly whether or not England was happy or smiled that day; but, then the morning would come and he'd find himself in bed asleep and thus counted off the visits as mere dreams. He never told anyone else about the phenomenon either; there was no use in bringing up old wounds and bad memories. But if he had, he might have learned others experienced these odd dreams as well. Germany often found himself plagued by Ancient Rome. Only the visits from the former great empire were less than welcomed from the Germanic country.

Years later, the sky above England was dull and dreary just as it is most days but today was no ordinary day, something England was soon to find out as he took his morning stroll into the woods. The sounds of the forest were peaceful and formed a peaceful melody for the Brit to walk to.

"Haha! Take that you scoundrel!" a high pitched, youthful voice called out capturing the older gentleman's attention. The child's laughter and playful sounds attracted the nation and England soon found himself in a clearing staring at a young, teal eyed youth fighting the air. "Oh no! The dragon is about to breathe fire. Take cover!" the boy yelled, leaping behind a small boulder.

England couldn't stifle his laugh, his presence shocking the child and making him pop his head out from under the rock to stare at England. He looked nervous and about to dart away at any moment and England could help but think that the child resembled a meerkat poking its head out of a burrow, looking for any threats before venturing to go outside.

"Wh-Who are you?" the child asked warily.

"You can call me Arthur, Arthur Kirkland. What's your name lad?" England told him, opting to use his human name as regular mortals weren't supposed to know his true identity.

"England!" the boy happily exclaimed.

England froze and inspected the child momentarily. The child did have a mess mop of blonde hair, slightly darker than England's own and his teal eyes twinkled with childlike delight and wonderment. His skin was slightly tanner than island nation's but the world had been changing, blonde becoming a more recessive trait and tanned skin a more sought after quality.

"B-But, I'm England this can'-"

"Oh! So you're England too!? How neat! You know, America told me I was named after someone special to him!"

"A-America?! H-How do you know that name! Tell me!" England shouted, running across the clearing to the small boy. This had been a poorly thought out move as England's frantic cries and rush to grab the child only served to scare the boy and force him to run into the thicket. England tried to chase after him but lost sight of him almost immediately. Dejected and confused, England fell to his knees and began to sob uncontrollably.

"Angleterre, what is the matter?" France cooed, placing a hand on the younger's shoulder, mildly surprised it was not brushed away. England had invited him out for drinks earlier and from the graveled sound of his voice France presumed he needed it.

"N-Nothing, just ghosts from my past."

"Did you spend another night in that creepy old tower of yours? I told you-"

"No I did not Frog! Just shut up and get me another scotch."

"You know you'll feel terrible tomorrow," France prodded, trying to make the other confide his trouble with him rather than drown them in alcohol.

"Bartender! Another scotch for me on my friend's tab would you?" England cried out, ignoring France.

"Fine, Angleterre. Do as you please."

A few drinks later, France was slightly surprised England hadn't completely succumbed to the alcohol and was actually prodding a conversation between the two.

"Do you remember that day?"

"What day?"

"The day you lost the war."

No further explanation was necessary. Since the American Revolution, France had not seen another battle.

"…Yes," France admitted softly.

Back then, even in defeat and staring down the barrel of the victorious English infantry, he refused to lose his smirk. But that was before he realized just what had happened to the little child he once knew and fought alongside with; the boy who had become a man, and the brother to his own adorable charge. God. How he remembered the stream of tears Canada had spilt when he told the young country the news. Only a few experiences in his life could compare to that heart wrenching experience. It was nothing short of amazing, in a morbid sense, of how great an impact the death of the foundling colony caused the world.

"I remember Spain and Prussia were so outraged," Arthur smirked into his whiskey, his teeth catching in the amber reflection. "But you…you didn't say anything. Why is that?"

"I knew you were hurting and even I am not so callous as to kick a person when they are down."

Arthur turned to look at the older nation, genuine surprise showing on his face.

"You're wondering how I knew aren't you?" Francis questioned.

Arthur nodded.

"I knew you just as well then as I do now. You loved…" Francis paused, he didn't necessarily say the youth in question's name lest it lead Arthur down an even more depressing spiral, "him. We had fought over him a few times, the latter of which were mostly bitter calculating ploys to hurt you because you were-and still are-the strongest country in the world. It was obvious that a direct attack at you would not only end in failure, you'd hardly feel it…but him. If you could hurt him you would be too. I think I might have been the only one to notice it though, or the only one low enough to stoop to such measures. I've never really discussed it with anyone." Francis sighed as he finished and looked over at Arthur whose eyes had turned glassy, threatening to spill tears. The French country was about to reach out a comforting hand when Arthur swiveled in his seat and found the amber liquid in his class captivating. The moment had passed and Francis withdrew his arm and stared down his own alcoholic beverage. Time ticked onwards, creating a comfortable silence between the pair as old memories washed over them.

"Do you remember Gaul?" Arthur asked, his voice breaking the peace.

"…Qui. What is this all of a sudden?"

"I don't really remember Britannia. It was like as soon as I could stand on my own she was gone. I wonder if it was the same for the Italy brothers," England mused, using his index finger to tilt the glass and swirl the liquid inside.

"…Well, I don't know about the Italian brothers but I don't remember much of Gaul either. It was like once I didn't need him he left," France answered, opting to placate his friend rather than press for the reasons behind the question. It was better that they talk and drink than drink in silence, or so France thought.

"I wonder if soon I'll no longer be needed."

"Angleterre! What are you saying? Of course you're needed! Without you, what do you think this world would be like?"

England sighed, taking a large swig of the honey liquor.

"It wasn't me. This world never needed me," England mumbled, tears spilling into his drink. "This world needed someone like America. Someone bright and kind not a burnt out old codger like myself."

France was about to reprimand the island nation but his admonition died in his throat when England spoke up again.

"Do you know what he said to me when left?" England said, his eyes turning glassy behind his tears. "He said- He said he was glad- glad that I was there with him. He told me he wanted me to be happy but without him I just feel empty. Always. The world just hasn't been as bright anymore."

France bit his tongue. He desperately wanted to comfort the bawling Brit but before tonight England had never before spoken to him of that day or of America so he refrained, allowing the smaller man to continue his miserable tirade.

"I miss him. I miss him so much and I don't think I'd mind following him someday soon."

"England!"

"You miss Joan don't you?"

"I-I… That's not fair-"

"I can tell that you do. Wouldn't you want to be with her now?"

"Of course I would but-"

"I don't think I ever apologized for what happened to her either but I truly am sorry."

"England, I don't wanna talk about this," France murmured, feeling his own eyes growing moist and his vision fogging.

England turned his head to catch sight of France's watery, blue eyes before casting his sight back down to his scotch.

"Sorry old chap. I didn't mean to bring up anything painful," England sighed, forcing his own tears to dry. Tilting his head back he downed the rest of his drink, an audible hiss escaping his lips and the liquid burned its way down his throat. "I think I'll head out now. Don't stay out too late and get yourself caught up in any trouble."

France didn't answer, merely lifting his first couple fingers into the air in a half-hearted goodbye.

England trudged out onto the empty streets, pulling his winter jacket closer around him. At the time, he didn't know why but he was drawn to take the scenic route home. The same route he saw the little boy from earlier on.

"America, I miss you. I want to see you so bad," Arthur murmured to himself, a stray tear falling down his cheek. However, before his sadness could progress to useless sobbing, England heard a lone stray voice call to him from the blackness.

"Oh say can you see by the dawn's early light,

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming;

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,

O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there:

Oh, say! does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?"

England paused, his ears pricking at the oddly familiar tune. And like the abrupt illumination of a match struck in the face of darkness, England became aware of the origin of the rebel song.

"America," he whispered, chasing after the voice. He ran straight into the thicket, baring no mind to the angry branches that clawed at his skin and drew angry red marks across his skin. "America? Is that you!? Where are you?!"

Instead of answer, the voice merely grew louder coaxing him closer until a force pulled him back. England fell unceremoniously on his back side, the song dying in the darkness of the forest.

"No! America!" England cried, scrambling to get up.

"Wait!" a small voice cried out, halting the older nation.

England spun on his heel, turning to face the owner of the small call. To his dismay, he found himself staring straight at the boy he had seen earlier, only the child seemed to have grown at a remarkable rate in his absence.

"Y-You," England stuttered.

"Yes, me."

"Who-Who are you!?"

"I'm you or at least what will come after you."

"Wh-What do you mean? I don't understand! Where's America? I heard him singing-"

"Jeez, you talk too much. America was righ- Aagh!"

"You tell me right now what you know about America!" England yelled, rushing the youngster and forcing him against a tree, unable to escape.

"C-Calm down," the boy answered, his turn to be flustered. "America sent me!"

"Wha-? What do you mean America sent you?"

"H-He wants to know if you're ready."

"Ready for what?" England spat back, shoving the child into the tree even harder.

"T-To go h-home and join him."

At this statement, England paused, his grip on the boy coming loose as he stumbled back.

"G-go ho-home? As-as in-"

"Yes, disappear," the youth nodded.

"Can- Can I see him first?"

The boy shook his head. "I'm sorry but no. If you wish to see him now, you must go with him and never come back. That is the only way."

England crumpled to the ground, hands cradling his head.

"What do I do?"

"You have time to decide. It doesn't have to be tonight but you shouldn't leave him without an answer for too long. He's waited a long time for this moment and if you're not ready, he told me to tell you that he'd understand but just don't leave him lingering here for an answer he'll never get. He's like a big brother to me and I don't want to see him hurt," the child answered, before darting back into the thicket towards where the voice had come.

"A-a-merica," England sobbed, falling asleep there in the forest.

* * *

A/N: All I can do is apologize that this is once again not the last chapter. Gosh, a simple one shot became a four shot. I just want to give all of the emotions proper time and deliberation. If I rush it now, I'll ruin the entire story and I don't want to do that…even though this is by no means a very popular story. Oh, well. You win some you lose some. I'm just glad some people like it. I hope you enjoy the ending…once I write it. I appreciate your support thus far and hope you continue reading and liking this.

…That last part is also why I decided to split this part. I's really appreciate some feedback on the story and where it's going…or at least where you think it's going. I'd hate to write a story where people like the beginning and hate the end. Not to say that I wouldn't, artistic integrity and all, but maybe if even people don't like it, I'll reconsider a different ending. :)

That's all for now and thanks again!


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